As the Light Fades
by Rointheta
Summary: The Doctor and Rose are captured by an organisation that hosts a fatal game show, and he's forced to watch her fight for her life.


_This is the twelfth fic in my 2013 Advent Calendar!_

**Warning**: A smidgen of violence, but it's not very graphic.  
**prompt**: "Nine and Rose get captured on an alien planet and there's only one way to get free. That's right, musical chairs! You either sit or you die!"  
**prompter**: nerdalert394  
**beta**: resile

* * *

**AS THE LIGHT FADES**

* * *

When those heartless bastards shoot the poison dart at Rose and it burrows into her neck, the Doctor stops breathing. She sags down on the floor with a whimper and lands next to the only remaining chair, legs folded under her, arms flung this way and that. The grey-skinned, lithe alien, who sat down on the last remaining chair the second the music stopped, squeezes her eyes shut to avoid watching the life leave the yellow-haired human. He can't do the same, can't tear his eyes off his dying companion.

He clenches his fists, his jaw, curls his toes in his boots, but he doesn't tug, doesn't try to break free. He's already spent hours fighting to get loose, rubbing his wrists and ankles raw as he's been forced to watch the fatal game, and now he sits with his sleeves and socks soaked in his blood. The poison had the other contestants writhing in pain until they met their end, but Rose lies unmoving, her breaths shallowing as she slips away. His hearts grow colder and harder until they freeze, shattering the moment her chest stills.

A booming sound fills his ears, pounds in his head, and his vision narrows until Rose's lifeless body fills all of it. He notices the game director enter the arena, only because she walks past Rose. He notices confetti raining down on the victor, only because it dances down over Rose, sticking to her hair, her lashes, her lips, covering her body and her limbs. He sucks in a sharp breath, the first since she died, when two stagehands rush in and drag away her body, just as they have the forty-eight other people who didn't make it.

"So, sorry, mister." One of the production assistants pats the Doctor's shoulder. "She was a good kid. Pity she didn't seem to suffer much… Not much entertainment value in that, you see. Quite anticlimactic, to be honest, since she was the last one to die. Oh, well. Not much to do about it. We have a winner. The game is over. The guards will soon be here. They'll escort you to the green room where you'll be strapped to another chair. You'll have to wait with the others until the paperwork is done."

"Give her back," the Doctor says through gritted teeth.

"Yes. Of course! We're not cruel. We always give back the contestants to their families. You know, for burials and whatnot. Not sure what your species does. Never had humans before. Anyway, we need to complete the paperwork first. And…" The game director waves at a nurse, who slides a device from her pocket and presses it against the Doctor's neck. His skin prickles and his vision dims, the world turning swirly and foggy. "I hope you understand, but we'll have to keep you sedated."

* * *

.

* * *

He awakes in the desert, the ground dense underneath him, the sun blazing up above and drying the blood on his clothes until they stiffen. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, to sit up, to remember, but then…

His breath leaves him with a whoosh as realisation punches him in the gut. Rose lies beside him. Unmoving. A few pieces of confetti still cling to her skin and he reaches out to brush off the ones on her cheek, hands stopping a hair's breadth over her waxen skin. He aches to caress her, to run her soft hair between his fingers, to feel her human-warmth against his cooler skin. She'll be cool now as well. He snatches his hand back and tightens his fist until his nails bite his flesh.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, he scoops her up in his arms and carries her back to the TARDIS. With each step, as she grows heavier in his arms, on his conscience, ice cold rage rises within him, filling up the aching void in his chest with determination to avenge Rose's death.

He places her with greatest care on the gurney in the infirmary and drapes a blanket over her body before turning around to leave. His time ship nudges his mind, but he refuses her comforting presence and shuts her out. He can mourn later. Now, he has to deal with the people who have taken his light away from him.

* * *

.

* * *

Noses crunch under his fists, necks crack in his hands, other lifeforms' blood saturate his clothes as he tears the place apart. He places explosives as he moves through the building, but makes sure to release every single person that had been forced into this sickening game. Once every cell has been opened, every guard incapacitated, every vile creature—the ones responsible for all this, the ones at the top—strapped to a chair, the Doctor stands in the doorway to the TARDIS and waits for the innocent flee. When the stragglers have reached a safe distance, he presses the big, red button on the remote control and watches the game show building burn.

* * *

.

* * *

He should bring her to Jackie. He will bring her to Jackie, will suffer the slaps and the wailing and the blame, but before he does anything else, before he lets go forever…

He settles down on a chair next to the gurney and cradles Rose's soft, cool hand in his. Grief tears at his chest, rips his insides apart, and the beginnings of a scream forms deep in his stomach. It rises up in his torso, floods his throat and fills his mouth, trying to force its way out. He swallows it—swallows all of it—and burrows his face into the hollow of her shoulder. He won't beg for the forgiveness he doesn't deserve, but he tells her that he's sorry, repeating the words until they muddle together and lose all their shape and meaning. Whispered confessions take their place. Not about his wrong-doings, not about his regrets, only the things about her, words he's bitten back every minute he's spent with her; though, he's still a coward and only dares uttering them in a language none than he understands.

The TARDIS prods at his barriers, tries to weasel her way in, and he flings himself up on his feet, glaring at the ceiling as he hurls insults at her until he's out of breath and the humming stops. The silence that follows weighs down on him, and shame washes through him for for lashing out on the only friend he has left—and for disrespecting Rose. He slouches down on his chair and hides his face in his hands, resting his elbows on the gurney. He takes a moment to breathe, to rein in his emotions, to regain control, before grabbing his companion's soft, cool hand again. He presses his lips to her skin—and something clicks.

Cool, yes, but soft?

He curls her fingers around his, bends her arm at the elbow, and her leg at the knee—all of it with ease. His time sense tells him over seven hours have passed since the dart hit Rose. Rigor mortis happens in humans after three to four hours and she's still soft.

It takes him ten minutes to identify the poison and learn that, instead of being fatal to humans, it only puts them in a coma where they appear to be dead and, as long as the patient receives the antidote within seventeen hours, they won't suffer any brain damage. He has nine hours to create the antidote. Nine hours, and a glorious time-and-space ship that fills his mind with a gentle, encouraging hum, telling him she'll do everything in her power to help him.

* * *

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* * *

He works without rest, flinging across the universe to gather the ingredients needed, and finishes the antidote with an hour to spare. Sitting down on the chair next to her gurney again, he injects Rose with the antidote and waits. Seconds tick away in his mind at an agonising pace, turning into sixteen exhausting minutes of him watching her face with intense focus for any minuscule change. When she flutters her eyes open and gasps in air, he sighs with relief and slumps in his chair as all tension leaves his body.

She lies silent for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, brow knitted, before she stretches out, flexing legs, toes, arms, and fingers. Licking her chapped lips and groaning, she rolls over on her side to face him. Warmth curls deep inside him as their eyes meet and he flings himself forward, pulling her into a tight, but short, hug before sitting down again.

"Doctor? Are you all right?"

He chuckles. "Yes, Rose. I'm fine. How are you?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. How long was I out?

"Almost seventeen hours."

"Oh, my god. No wonder I feel all…" She scratches her head. "What happened?"

"I got us out."

She nods, eyes flitting over the infirmary. "Can I have some water, thanks?"

He fills up half a glass for her, grabs a straw, and helps her sit up before handing it to her. The colour in her cheeks increases by the second, and he drinks her in as she drinks her water.

"What about the others? All the others. Must've been hundreds of people waiting in those cells."

"I freed them."

"You… On your own?"

He nods.

"How did…" She shakes her head. "But all those guards. All those… What about the organisation? What about Musical Chairs of Death?" She snorts. "God, that title, though. Can barely take it seriously, even though I nearly—"

"I took care of it."

"You took—" Something flickers in her eyes and she draws her brows together, leaning backwards just a fraction. "Doctor, what did you do?" She gives him a onceover and her jaw goes slack as she sees the blood on his clothes. "What did—" She frowns and pushes up his sleeve, face falling as she sees his wounds. "You're hurt! Seventeen hours? And you didn't take care of yourself? What the hell, Doctor!"

She scrambles out of bed and rushes toward the cabinet where he keeps the antibiotic solution, gauze, and the dermal regenerator, but her legs don't carry her and she tumbles, catching her balance by grabbing the nearby counter. It takes him three seconds to be by her side and he sweeps her up in his arms and places her back on the gurney, grinning at her as she scowls at him.

"I was just standing up too fast, all right? I'm fine."

"Mhm," he says, going back to the cupboard to pick out what he needs.

"No, really. I am." He hears her slide off the gurney and pad up to him, and he rolls his eyes. "Take off your jumper and your trousers, and—"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, how are we going to clean your wounds?"

He shakes his head, but strips until he wears nothing but his boxer briefs, tossing his bloodied clothes down the laundry chute by the door.

Although he puts up a fight, she wins and ends up cleaning his wounds with water before applying an antibiotic ointment. It stings like hell and he grinds his teeth, fighting the impulse to recoil from the pain, and grinning back whenever she offers him an apologetic smile. Once she's done, she fires up the regenerator and waits until the light turns from red to green, moving the apparatus over his damaged skin. At first, it tingles and itches, then it spreads a warmth over his skin that seeps into his body, and he can't help but beam at his stubborn Rose fussing over him, at how her tongue pokes out in the corner of her mouth as she concentrates.

His deeper wounds, the ones on the outside, still need to be dressed, and she grabs the gauze and wraps it around his ankles and wrists with the same ease as she has wrapped him around her little finger. Instead of watching her work, he uses this time to admire her face, dreaming about what it would feel like to follow the planes and angles of her features, the slope of her nose, and the fullness of her mouth with his lips instead of his eyes. She would taste of the desert they lay in, of minerals and salts and—

"There!" she says, jolting him out of his fantasies as she steps back and surveys her work. "All better."

He just smiles and, for the briefest moment, lets her see everything he feels for her. Her lips part as she inhales, a blush colouring her cheeks, lashes fluttering over eyes sparkling with life and light—and something he'll never allow himself to name.

"Good job, that," he says, turning his hands over as he inspects his bandaged wrists. "Thank you." He stands up and folds his arms over his chest, giving her a firm look. "Now, I'm having none of your 'I'm fine' bollocks. I'm cooking you tea. You'll take it in bed. And then you'll go to sleep. No buts. No change of plans. Tea. Bed. Sleep."

"Yeah, all right," she says, chin tilted up. "But I'm using the loo first, 'cause I need to wee so bad I can taste it. No, eugh," she says, crinkling her nose and giggling. "That's not what I meant."

He joins her in her laughter, grabbing the countertop for support as he releases guffaw after guffaw. Tears he couldn't afford to shed earlier now flow down his cheeks and, although he can sense her curious looks, he's released a floodgate and can't stop. He clutches his stomach with his other hand and starts wheezing out laughs. She shakes her head at him and steps through the door to the infirmary toilet and he's still at it when she comes back out.

"Honestly, Doctor. It wasn't that funny."

"No." He finally manages to calm down and wipes his eyes and cheeks. "Suppose it wasn't," he says, proffering her his arm and she loops hers around it with a smile. "C'mon, then. Let me cook you that tea."

* * *

.

* * *

It strikes him again, when he sits by her bedside as she snuggles up under the covers, how close he was to losing her. As though she can sense him tensing up, can hear his heartbeats stagger, his breath hitch, she scoots to the side and pats the spot she just cleared for him. He hesitates. He's promised himself never to cross this line, especially not with her, but she smiles and he melts, crawling in to lie next to her anyway. He doesn't curl around her, doesn't burrow his face into her hair and breathe her in, only holds her soft, warm hand in his and watches her eyes drift close as she falls asleep.

* * *

**the end**


End file.
